


Never Stop Fighting (Till the Fight is Done)

by Brumeier



Series: Bite Sized Fic [88]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Amnesia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, M/M, Prompt Fill, Team Bonding, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 01:37:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7413340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/pseuds/Brumeier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LJ Comment Fic for AUs prompt: <i>Avengers, ensemble, Wild West AU.</i></p><p>In which former-Ranger Steve unintentionally assembles his own band of do-gooders on his quest for vengeance, and he finds out that having the support of the group behind him is all the help he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Stop Fighting (Till the Fight is Done)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Taste_is_Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taste_is_Sweet/gifts), [vanillafluffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday, Taste! And thanks for the inspiring prompt, Vanillafluffy!

Steve hadn’t set out to assemble a gang of his own. The possibility never even crossed his mind. He’d turned in his Ranger badge, once he was on his feet again, and walked away from the job without even a twinge of regret. The only thing that kept him going was his thirst for vengeance against the gang that killed his partner and best friend, Bucky, and all those other people on the train.

Major Coulson had tried to talk Steve out of leaving, had insisted that the best course of action was to bring the Red Skull gang to justice. But Steve knew that sometimes a person had to seek out their own justice. Judges could be too easily swayed by an exchange of money, and Steve couldn’t have that, not with the jagged hole in his life where Bucky used to be.

And so he rode through the desert, chasing down any leads he could find. Schmidt and his gang couldn’t evade him forever.

In the desert is where Steve found Bruce, half naked and more than half dead from thirst. The man had clearly been robbed and left to die, which had all the earmarks of the Red Skulls. He gave Bruce water, put salve on his dry, cracked lips, and cooked them both up some beans and fatback. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Bruce rasped, the first thing he was able to say once he’d recovered enough to talk at all.

“You know who did this to you?” Steve asked, trying not to sound too eager. If it was Schmidt’s gang, they couldn’t be that far ahead.

“Bandits. Took everything.”

“Did they have skulls painted on their tack? Red skulls?”

“Friends of yours?” Bruce asked, and accepted more water when he started coughing.

“Something like that. If you’re feeling up to it, I can get you to Fullwood in the morning. You can tell the sheriff there what happened.”

“I’d be obliged. Thank you.”

Steve was as good as his word. He took Bruce to Fullwood, even gave him some coin so he could get proper clothes. That should’ve been the last they saw of each other, but then Steve’s plans rarely worked the way they ought to these days.

Bruce found his horse tied up outside the saloon, and when he tried to take her back, one of Schmidt’s men came out throwing punches. Steve moved to intervene – Bruce wasn’t a very big fellow and he was still weak from his ordeal – but to his astonishment his new friend took down the bandit all on his own. Steve had never seen anything like the rage that filled Bruce up, quick as a wink. He _tossed_ the guy, as if he were nothing more than a stick of firewood, and the snap of bone ensured that the guy would be laid up a good long while. 

And then just like that Bruce was himself again, quieting his horse with soft words and gentle hands.

Steve tried to question the guy Bruce had roughed up, but he was out cold and Steve had no desire to explain things to the sheriff. He high-tailed it out of town, Bruce close on his heels. When they were far enough away to slow the horses to a walk, Bruce apologized.

“I try not to let my anger get the best of me, but I’m not always successful.”

“That’s okay. I don’t think I’d have gotten much out of him anyway. If Schmidt was in town his boys would’ve ganged up on you. That guy and whoever else robbed you are acting on their own.”

“What did this guy Schmidt do to you?” Bruce asked.

“He took something I can never replace,” Steve said darkly.

*o*o*o*

Bruce decided to stick with Steve, since he had nowhere in particular to go. Steve didn’t mind the company. Bruce was a quiet guy, didn’t feel the need for idle chatter or invasive questions. He took over cooking duties, since he was better at it, and if he heard Steve cry out at night in the throes of a nightmare, he never said anything about it.

“Where we headed?” 

“Prickly Gulch. A friend of mine is meeting me there, hopefully with some information on where Schmidt’s gang is holed up.”

Only when Steve started asking around town for Tony, he found his friend behind bars and scheduled for hanging the next day, instead of installed in the best room the local hotel had to offer.

“What’d you do this time?” Steve asked wearily.

“You know, for a former Ranger you don’t put much stock in innocence before guilt.” 

Tony was sitting on the bunk, looking unusually rumpled and sporting a nice bruise along his cheekbone. He was a well-known rogue and gambler, and it wasn’t the first time he’d found himself on the wrong side of the law. It _was_ the first time he’d find himself on the wrong side of a hangman’s noose.

“He forced himself upon one of our virtuous young women,” the sheriff said.

“Believe me, the only force I used was trying to keep her in her undergarments long enough to make it indoors.”

Steve shot Tony a quelling look. “That’s not a hanging offense.”

“No, but killing the girl’s fiancé sure is.”

“I did _not_ do that,” Tony said with a scowl.

“Sheriff, my friend is a despicable excuse for a human being.” Steve didn’t believe in denying the facts.

“You do say the sweetest things.”

“But he’s no murderer.”

There was no convincing the sheriff, or apparently whatever jury they’d scraped up for his trial, and Steve knew when he was fighting a losing battle. He gave Tony his most apologetic look. 

“Sorry, pal. Looks like you’ve really stepped in it this time.” 

Tony narrowed his eyes, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

“I guess at dawn tomorrow you’ll finally get what Blind Pete said you had coming all these years.”

“Noon,” the sheriff corrected. “We do our hangings at noon.”

“Oh. Right. Well, may the good Lord have mercy on your soul, Tony Stark.”

Steve turned and left, Bruce following along behind and looking sorrowful.

“I’m sorry about your friend, Steve.”

“No sorrier than me,” Steve replied. “I have to bust him out of there.”

It was easy, really. At dawn Steve set fire to the gallows, which brought everyone on the run to put it out. Tony, having picked up on the Steve’s plan thanks to a pre-arranged code, managed to incapacitate the one deputy they left to guard him. All they needed was for Bruce to liberate Tony’s horse from the stables, and they were able to ride out of town before anyone even knew they were gone.

“Who’s your friend?” Tony shouted to Steve as they raced away from Prickly Gulch.

“Bruce. He’s got rage issues.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em!” Tony replied without the slightest hint of irony.

*o*o*o*

They were traveling through hill country, riding into the dusk, when a howl made the horses toss their heads nervously.

“Wolves,” Bruce said, scanning the terrain. 

A very human bellow followed, and that got Steve’s attention. “Not just wolves.”

“This way,” Tony said, and turned his mount’s head towards the north.

“We don’t have time for this,” Steve grumbled, but he followed. It would seem that relinquishing his Ranger star didn’t release him from the impulse to help someone in need. They’d have had to stop and make camp soon anyway, he told himself.

When they reached the source of the noise, Steve couldn’t believe the sight in front of him. Four wolves had a man corned against a rocky outcropping, and the man was fighting them off with what looked like a blacksmith’s hammer.

“ _Förbannat jävlar_!” the man bellowed, swinging the hammer and catching one of the wolves in the skull.

“Sounds like a Swede,” Tony said.

The man certainly looked the part. He was large, tall and muscular, and he had long blonde hair that had been pulled back off his face and secured with a strip of leather.

“ _Dra åt helvete_!”

Steve pulled his rifle. He was a good shot, but Bucky had been better with moving targets. He winged one of the wolves, but the crack of gunfire was enough to chase them off.

The Swede, whose name was Thor, was effusive with his thanks, and Steve was surprised to hear that he spoke English with almost no accent.

“Thank you, friends, for coming to my aide. I do not know how much longer I could have kept the beasts at bay.”

“What’re you doing out here on foot?” Steve asked. “That’s a dangerous way to travel.”

Thor shook his head sadly. “My horse broke his leg. I had to put him down.”

“We don’t have an extra,” Steve said, apologetic. “But we can escort you to the nearest town, make sure you get there in one piece.” 

“I do not mind the walking. Thank you for your kindness.”

They made camp there for the night, and Thor told them that he was looking for his brother, who’d betrayed his family. Thor wouldn’t say what he’d done, but by the look on his face it was bad. Before the troubles with his family, he’d been a blacksmith in Missouri Territory.

Thor had a bottle of something he called mead, which he passed around until everyone was feeling loose. Steve hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the camaraderie of spending time with friends. When Bucky died, it was as if Steve had become frozen. Numb. The idea that he could have a life again felt like a betrayal to everything Bucky had meant to him.

*o*o*o*

According to a source Tony swore was completely reliable, the Red Skull gang was holed up near a town called Mar Hermoso. Steve was so close to Schmidt he could practically smell the man’s vile stench.

Twenty-four people had died on the train that day, including Bucky. Who knew how many others the gang had killed, for sport or profit or both? Steve would be doing the world a favor when he removed Schmidt from it, providing he could find the man.

In any town, the best place to get information was the saloon. Men were more likely to have loose lips after they’d ingested some alcohol, or while they were trying their luck at the card tables.

The Widow’s Bite seemed promising. There were several card games underway, and Tony immediately looked for one he could join. Upstairs were private rooms where a man could buy some time with one of the saloon girls, and Thor carefully counted out his money to do so. Bruce stayed at the stables to look after the horses – he didn’t partake of alcohol, which he said only shortened his anger fuse – which left Steve to sit at the bar and ask questions.

The barmaid was dressed like a man, in trousers, shirt and vest, but the outfit somehow accentuated her womanly curves instead of hiding them. Her hair was shorter than fashionable, and the color of banked embers.

“What I can get you?” she asked Steve in a thick Russian accent.

“Bourbon. Please. The good stuff.” Steve tossed some money on the bar to show his good intentions, and the barmaid nodded.

The liquor was good, smooth and tasting vaguely of caramel, and Steve gave himself a moment to enjoy it before he launched into a casual interrogation.

“Nice place,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, either. For a saloon it was remarkably clean, and the girls that were making rounds around the room were well-dressed and looked healthy. In his travels Steve had seen some girls so covered in sores and bruises he’d wanted to call the local doc in to look at them, even though that sort of thing didn’t fall under his responsibilities as a Ranger.

“I run good place. Clean games, clean girls,” the barmaid said.

Steve looked at her in surprise. “You own this place?”

“A woman cannot?” The barmaid gave him a steely look. “I am just as good as a man.”

Steve held up his hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it, ma’am. I’d say you’re doing a great job here.”

“So. Ask your questions.”

“Questions?”

“You look like man who needs answers. I maybe have some. Ask.”

The barmaid had a keen eye.

“I’m Steve.” He held his hand out over the bar, and after a minute she shook it.

“Natasha.”

“You’re right, Natasha. I do have some questions. I’m looking for someone, and I hope you can help me find him.” Steve leaned in close and kept his voice down. “Johann Schmidt, and his Red Skull gang.”

“You want to join them?” Natasha asked, studying Steve intently.

“I want to kill him.”

“You must have a death wish,” Natasha said, and all hints of her accent had vanished. “He’s a dangerous man.”

“And what are you?” Steve couldn’t help asking. Natasha grinned.

“Just a barmaid. Why are you after the Red Skulls?”

“They killed someone important to me. I aim to repay the favor.”

Natasha nodded, and stepped back from the bar. Steve didn’t know what he was expecting her to do, but bellowing “Clint!” at the top of her lungs certainly wasn’t it. He flinched, startled, but noticed that the regulars in the place didn’t pay her any notice. Nor did they bat an eye when a man in buckskins dropped down from the rafters, a quiver of feather-tipped arrows on his back. He crouched on the bar until Natasha swatted at him, and then he moved himself to the seat next to Steve.

“This is Clint. He can help you. He doesn’t hear very well, but he’s good at reading lips.”

Steve wasn’t so sure about that, but he was willing to try anything. “I need to find Johann Schmidt.”

Clint tipped his head to the side, but didn’t respond.

“The Red Skull gang,” Steve said, trying to make sure he clearly enunciated.

“I know where they are,” Clint replied. “If you’re looking to take them out, I’ll help.”

Natasha had a soft, affectionate look on her face. “He’s a deadeye with a bow. The tribe that raised him calls him Hawkeye.” 

“I’d appreciate the assistance, but I don’t want to put anyone in danger,” Steve said.

“Schmidt and his gang are a plague.” Natasha spit on the floor. “I heard about what happened on the Western Star. All those people. They won’t stop unless someone stops them.”

“I’m that someone,” Steve promised.

*o*o*o*

There’d been a meeting, after the Widow’s Bite had closed for the night. Steve had said he could carry on alone, but he’d been shouted down. They all wanted to help, even Bruce who tried to stay well away from trouble. They were each fighting their own battles, their own inner demons, and still they insisted on standing with Steve. Tony had laughingly suggested they call themselves Steve’s Avengers.

Natasha rented them rooms at the saloon, but Steve couldn’t sleep. He was so close to Schmidt, so close to finally getting his vengeance. He didn’t know what he’d do with himself once it was done. Go back to the Rangers? Buy a few acres of land and start his own ranch, like he’d sometimes talked about with Bucky?

There had been a time Steve wouldn’t have been able to track a man across miles and months. He’d been born sickly. His parents hadn’t expected him to live into adulthood. And maybe he wouldn’t have, if Dr. Erskine hadn’t come to town peddling his Miracle Elixir. Steve’s dad had been angry at the time, at the money his wife had spent on bottles of the stuff. But she and Bucky had believed in it, so Steve had believed too. He must’ve drunk gallons of the bitter-tasting stuff that summer. 

And it had worked.

Steve grew stronger, healthier, put on muscle. He was able to follow Bucky when he joined the Rangers. They were partners, friends. More than friends. They’d been teased more than once about settling down into a bachelor marriage. His relationship with Bucky was something Steve had never been able to adequately express in words, particularly when there were people who would have condemned them for the feelings they had.

He regretted now that he’d never told Bucky how much he loved him. He’d always thought he’d have plenty of time.

Well, he wasn’t going to waste time dealing with Schmidt. Steve would see that man dead for the crimes he’d committed, if it was the last thing he ever did.

*o*o*o*

“I’m sorry. What did she say?” Tony stared at Natasha, who’d showed up dressed for riding in trousers with chaps, boots, and a revolver on her hip.

“She said we have to follow the dog,” Bruce said helpfully.

“It is not much of a dog.” Thor squatted down to get a closer look. “He has only one eye.”

“This is the signal?” Steve asked dubiously. 

Clint had left before the sun came up, to make sure the Red Skulls were still where he thought they were. He said he’d send a signal if the answer was yes, but Steve hadn’t been expecting a half-blind dog.

“Lucky’s smarter than he looks,” Natasha said, scratching the animal behind the ears. “He’ll lead us to Clint.”

"Lucky?" Tony snorted. "There's a joke in there somewhere."

“Mount up,” Steve said. His skin was thrumming in anticipation of the fight ahead. After months of being one step behind Schmidt and his gang, it was finally time to face the man who’d killed his best friend.

Thor had managed to procure a horse that was easily seventeen hands high, big enough to easily carry him. He’d refused to carry a firearm, though, and Steve wasn’t sure how useful he was going to be unless things turned hand-to-hand. In fact, out of the assembled group the only one Steve knew for sure he could rely on was Tony, because he’d seen what Tony could do with the modified Colt revolvers he wore.

The only thing Steve said before Lucky took off and they gave chase was, “Don’t get between me and Schmidt.”

They rode for almost an hour across scrubby desert, passing the occasional ranch, herds of long-horn cattle roaming in search of something to graze on. It was hot, dry and dusty, and Steve had to keep his bandana pulled up over his mouth and nose so he didn’t choke on it.

Finally they came to some rough-hewn fencing, and in the distance Steve could just make out a house. Lucky took them along the fence line, to where a cluster of outbuildings huddled together under the blazing sun. Clint was lying down on top of one of them, but he slid off as soon as they got close.

“Three sentries posted,” he said, holding up three fingers for emphasis. “They’ll have seen you coming.”

“You sure he’s in there?” Steve asked, mouthing each word very carefully.

Clint nodded.

“Can you take out the sentries?”

Another nod, and then Clint was climbing back up to the roof like some kind of tree squirrel. Steve heard him pull back and release his bow three times, and then Clint leaned over the edge of the roof.

“Done.”

He really was good. No-one raised an alarm, not as far as Steve could tell.

“I’m going in,” Steve said. “Hang back, stay concealed. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Don’t be a martyr,” Tony said, squeezing Steve’s shoulder tightly. 

Steve just nodded. He walked right up to the house, and surely he’d been seen, but none of the gang showed themselves. He paused just shy of the porch.

“Johann Schmidt!” he called out, and pulled his Colt. “Come on out and face me like a man!”

There was no sound from inside the house, but after a long minute or two, the front door opened and a man stepped out on the porch, revolvers in each hand. It wasn’t Schmidt. This man had brown hair hanging over his eyes, and a blank expression on his face. He looked at Steve, and Steve forgot how to breathe.

“Bucky?”

It was impossible. But there he stood: James Buchanan Barnes, looking for all the world like a wraith ready to get some vengeance of his own. He raised both revolvers and pointed them at Steve.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve.” Steve lowered his own gun. He couldn’t shoot.

Bucky tipped his head to the side, and his brow furrowed. He opened his mouth, but before he got a chance to speak, Schmidt’s voice carried out from behind the front door.

“Captain Rogers. You have finally caught me up.”

“Come on out!” Steve shouted, though he couldn’t take his eyes off Bucky. Alive! He was alive! “Answer for your crimes!”

“Ah, but do you not see? I am not the monster you make me out to be. Only twenty-three people died that day. This man I saved. Is that not right, _mein Schoßhündchen_?”

Bucky flinched, but the guns didn’t waver.

“What did you do to him?”

“I kept him alive, knowing you would like to see him again. Is this not the reunion you hoped for?” Schmidt had the gall to laugh.

“I know you,” Bucky said, his voice so low Steve almost missed it.

“Yes. We were children together, Rangers together. I’m Steve.” He took a step towards Bucky, who cocked both guns. “You’re name is Bucky Barnes. You’re my friend.”

“He is not your friend,” Schmidt said. He finally showed himself, slipping out the front door but keeping well behind Bucky. “ _Du bist Abschaum_ , Captain!”

Steve didn’t know what that meant, but he could hear the insult just the same. “And what is a man who hides behind another? A coward.”

“ _Tötet sie alle_!” Schmidt shouted, and Red Skulls erupted from the house in a wave of hollering and gunfire. They were headed straight for the outbuildings.

Steve had to resist the urge to help his friends. He couldn’t let Schmidt distract him, and he’d be god-damned if he’d leave Bucky behind. Not again.

“Shoot him!” Schmidt commanded.

Bucky frowned, and slowly shook his head. “No. I know him. I can’t…I don’t remember.”

Schmidt snarled, and before Steve could call out a warning he had the edge of a blade pressed against Bucky’s throat, little beads of blood already sliding down Bucky’s skin.

Behind Steve a battle raged, he could hear Bruce roaring epithets, and it killed him to be apart from it, to be unable to help his friends. He didn’t dare take his eyes off of Schmidt.

“You forget your place, _mein Schoßhündchen_. You are meant to kill this man.”

Bucky lowered his arms, and the guns hit the porch with a double thud. “I can’t.”

“Then you will watch him die, and live to wonder what he might have meant to you.”

Everything happened fast after that. Bucky started to struggle even as Schmidt pulled a gun with his other hand. Steve brought his up to bear as well, but there was still a chance he’d hit Bucky and it stayed his trigger finger. Schmidt got a shot off that clipped Steve’s ear, but he barely felt it. He jumped up on the porch, trying to pull Schmidt off of Bucky and avoid getting shot in the process.

Another wild shot, and then Bucky took Schmidt down. They rolled off the porch and into the yard, and through the cloud of dust Steve could hear fists hitting flesh. 

“Bucky!” he cried. He leapt off the porch, and there was another gunshot. 

When the dust cleared, Schmidt was standing with his gun pointed at Steve’s chest, and Bucky was crumpled on the ground.

“This is better, yes? You have watched him die twice over. How does that make you feel?”

It was the train all over again, watching the car plummet off the trestle with Bucky and all those other innocent people inside. The grief was fresh, the guilt sharp. This time he could’ve saved him. _This time_ Bucky didn’t have to die. In his mind’s eye, Steve could see himself walking up to Schmidt and twisting his arm, jamming the barrel of Schmidt’s own gun under his jaw and pulling the trigger. And then maybe he’d take on the gang as well, go down in a blaze of gunfire. Steve had thought he could go on, build a life without Bucky, but he was wrong. There _was_ no life without Bucky.

“You came all this way to fail. How wonderful and terrible. A fitting end, yes? Goodbye, Captain.”

Schmidt’s finger was on the trigger, but then Bucky’s leg kicked out and struck Schmidt in the ankle, hard enough that Steve could hear it crack. Schmidt turned, swinging the gun back around to point at Bucky, and then quite unexpectedly there was an arrow embedded in the kraut’s eye. Schmidt twitched, the gun going off and kicking up the dirt right next to Bucky’s head, and then he dropped like a stone.

Clint gave a war cry, but Steve barely heard him. Or the fact that all the shooting had stopped. He dropped to his knees next to Bucky, looking for the mortal injury he was sure the man had suffered and only finding a deep groove along his side where the bullet had passed.

“That really hurts,” Bucky hissed.

He’d been twice-charmed, escaping certain death, and Steve was at a loss for what to say, even if he could’ve forced the words past the lump in his throat. In his relief, he acted without thinking and kissed Bucky full on the mouth, heedless of who might be watching or what Bucky himself might think since he’d clearly lost his memory.

To Steve’s surprise, Bucky kissed him back, one arm looped around Steve’s neck.

“Hey,” Bucky said when Steve pulled back. “I like that. Do we do that a lot?”

Steve couldn’t help laughing, and if it turned into something with a few more tears no-one needed to know.

And then Lucky was there licking his face, and friends – new and old – surrounded them, looking worse for wear but still all very much alive.

“You chowderheads need a hand?” Tony asked.

“We win?” Steve asked. He accepted Tony’s outstretched hand, and the both of them got Bucky on his feet.

“Damn right we did,” Tony replied, puffing out his chest. “The Avengers fought the good fight, and vanquished the enemy.”

“Some of them ran away,” Thor said. His hammer was looking a bit gory. “They will not show their cowardly faces here again.”

“Avengers?” Bucky asked, wincing as Natasha bound up his wound. “Is that the name of your gang?”

“No,” Steve said.

“Yes!” Tony replied at the same time.

“Hey!” Bruce called out, picking his way around the bodies. “I found my hat!”

Steve laughed, and he couldn’t remember the last time he felt so warm, so alive. So hopeful.

“Come on,” he said. “Last one back to the Widow’s Bite buys.”

**Author's Note:**

>  **AN:** This fic came about through a series of fortunate events. I was trying to think of something good to write for my dear friend Taste’s birthday. It had to be MCU. At the same time, on one of the AU days at Comment Fic, vanillafluffy posted this prompt. I looked at it, thought someone really should write it, and moved on. A day or two later I was looking through my DVDs and I had _Silverado_ in my hand. Just like that, it all came together. A cool Western AU fic I could gift Taste that would fill the prompt.
> 
> This also fills the Group Support square on my h/c bingo card.
> 
> The title comes from the movie _The Untouchables_.
> 
> Historical accuracy? Yeah, no. I’m sure there are plenty of inconsistencies, and I apologize if that’s something that bothers you. Also, Clint is closer to comic Clint than movie Clint, and that's pretty much just based on Tumblr posts. So there you go. Final disclaimer: all foreign language phrases but the German ones gleaned from Google (thanks, Darkmoore!).


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